


Reality and the Substitute

by fill_empty_space_here (orphan_account)



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Loneliness, Suicide, twist ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fill_empty_space_here
Summary: What could a few seconds change? Time is precious, and so is life.But time is hurtful. Time measures how long he's been in denial, how long he's been alone, and how long it takes for him to reach the sharp edge of a jagged rock at the bottom of a broken bridge. Time measures the few seconds that were wasted running to stop him.-Title sucks.Warning: Major character death, strongly implied depression, suicidal thoughts, and strong depictions of violence. Triggers?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I got sad. I just don't want this on my mind. I'm sorry. Don't bother even reading this.
> 
> **THIS SHIP IS OBVIOUSLY NOT REAL. DO NOT CONFUSE THIS WITH ANY REAL LIFE EVENTS.**

Moonlight shone through a window, only to be quickly shut by the onset idea of complete isolation. 

He hadn't posted in weeks. He hadn't opened any social media, and for a reason. There was a deep, severe emptiness in his chest, clouding his everyday life. 

He already had the entire ordeal planned out. He isn't leaving any letters, but he already left his will as easily as possible; he doesn't want it too obvious. No, if it was obvious, someone would want to stop him. If someone wanted to stop him, they would help him. If they helped him, he would end up dying with one person caring for him.

He laid in bed, his mind clearer than ever. He finally had a purpose in life. He finally had something to look forward to in the morning. 

There, he laid, with the idea to kill himself the very next day. 

His reasons? 

He couldn't handle the horrible, painful feeling that resided deep in his bones. It was burrowed into his skull like a bullet, and dislodging a bullet as deep as his would take something drastic.

He didn't know what it was, but it was rooted deep into his mind. It wasn't numbingly infinite, but an interminable pain he couldn't explain in the correct words. It was a long-lasting fatigue, an endless feeling of sadness and self-hatred, an unexplained need to fill the hole in his chest quickly, a long string of hateful words that ran through his head with no explanation. It was the small part of him that was alive responding to the overwhelming feeling of being dead inside. It was an ache—no, a _need_ for something to help him feel something. Only alcohol and drugs helped numb this pain. The alcohol he twitched for and drank every few hours. The drugs he took as a prescription. The drugs that didn't help.

His friends—he didn't deserve to call them that; they were only around to pity him—were worried. He hadn't explained why he was taking a break. He hadn't answered any of their texts. He hadn't really left his house. The weeks were restless. His mind was restless.

He didn't know what caused this. There wasn't anything that triggered it. 

He just knew that he didn't want to feel this way. 

Suicide was his only option.

The thoughts came flooding back. A painful, suffocating wave of spite and hate. The truth.

He quickly sat up, his eyes shut and wired to his skin. He couldn't open them. He was afraid he was awake.

He tried shutting out the harsh whispers by covering his ears, but they only increased in volume and effectiveness. He couldn't even control his own thoughts.

_Pathetic_

_No one loves you. Your life is a mistake. No one will miss you._

_You're worthless. You don't even do anything with your life. Everyone’s better than you._

_You're such a fucking idiot. All you do is fuck everything up and do everything wrong._

_Your friends just pity you. Your parents are disappointed. Your subscribers won't miss you. You don't deserve to live. Everyone will be glad to hear that you're fucking dead._

He fell asleep listening to the voices in his head, the ones he could never get rid of. The ones that he actually believed. The ones that meant something to him.

  


He walked out of his door at precisely 9 am. His stuff was already in boxes, ready to be picked up some other day. He wore a red shirt under a black jacket and some dark jeans with it. He walked down his sidewalk, the one he had walked down so many times. He walked across the street and headed for the place he knew so well.

The bridge. 

It was in a beautiful park. A spacious park with a wonderful landscape and people… The people who stared at him with such disdain. In his eyes, they were glaring. In his mind, they were scowling. In his thoughts, they were the ones that wanted him dead.

The bridge overlooked a beautiful scenery. It was a small height, but enough to break his neck. It was a bit rickety due to its outdated wooden features, but lined with a steep slope and jagged rocks that poked out between patches of dirt and pools of dirty water.

Right where he belonged.

He stood there, enjoying the view that overtook his senses. The last view he would be seeing. 

He ignored the looks of the people passing him. He nodded off strangers' worried questioning. He inhaled one last breath of fresh air. He ran a hand through his hair. He suffered under the heavy weight of sadness that overtook him, and sat on the edge. He swung a leg over, then another. His hands didn't hug his body. His hands were cold. Cold with the despair that dragged down his features. His mind was once again clear. He was never so sure that he wanted to die. A frown etched upon his face, a cold wind lashed out at him. He could hear the whispers coming back. 

_There's no hope. Jump._

_You're worthless. Jump._

_No one liked you. You're falling._

Except he wasn't.

Arms encircled him. They were warm, inviting. They were melting any cold he had in his body. They were melting—vaporizing his defenses. The defenses he had worked so hard to keep people—people like _him_ —out.

It had been going so well.

He couldn't hear anything. For once, he felt numb. He was yanked off the edge. 

The world was blurry. Where these tears?

In the confusion, all he could do was create apologies for the man before him. That was all he said. Two simple words that couldn't amount to all the burden he’s created on him.

He had his eyes shut. He couldn't open them. He was afraid he was asleep.

“It’s okay. I'm here now.”

He couldn't stop. He just kept repeating those two words. Each time, his voice broke, his heart broke, and his tone fell flat. He was pulled flush against the other’s chest; the tears that he stored for so long gushed out. Every single thing he had ever done wrong came pouring out of his mouth in paces so quick that even he couldn't follow. 

“Hey. Look at me.”

He still kept his eyes shut. He didn't want to wake up. He didn't want to wake up in a time where his horrible sadness was his main feeling. He didn't want to wake up in his depressing life.

“Listen to me.”

A hand slowly lifted his face to look at the other’s. He kept his eyes shut.

“I love you.”

He finally opened his eyes. He was falling. The jagged rocks coming closer, and closer.

He shut his eyes.

“Sean!”

That was the last thing heard. Mark’s beautiful voice, laced with fear, and guilt—as it will be forever because of Sean’s selfishness and refusal for help. For his stupidity. For, as Mark thought, the few **_stupid, fucking_** moments he could have saved to get to Sean in time, before he leapt of the bridge, before he missed his chance.

The impact hurt. A sharp pain ran through his body from his ribs as he heard a loud crack. The pain stayed there as the overpowering sensation of asphyxiation filled him. He couldn't breathe. The rocks struck through him as blood pooled out of his mouth and onto the ground, as blood filled his lungs and as his heart was no ponger beating, his icy blue eyes curtained by his eyelids by the onset idea of his death.

And he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism is fine, comments are awesome, and kudos are appreciated. I hope you liked it...


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